Guys, I’ve been in a hell of a writing slump. But a couple weeks back I unexpectedly encountered a Marine who served in Vietnam with Gustav Hasford, author of The Short-Timers, which became Full Metal Jacket. That movie drove me and thousands of others into the Marine Corps in the 80s and 90s. I wound up interviewing six of Hasford’s brothers who served with him in Vietnam, and the backstory is even more interesting than his book and the movie it spawned.

If you’re interested in the history of the Vietnam War, or read The Short-Timers, or saw Full Metal Jacket, you might enjoy this article. The intro and a link to the full article are below, hope you enjoy it.

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It was April, height of the COVID crisis. I was cruising a Facebook photography forum, bored out of my skull, and saw a photo posted by Marine combat photographer Dennis Fisher. It was him in Vietnam with a camera and M3 Grease Gun, taken by a USMC combat correspondent named Earl Gerheim in Phu Bai after the Tet Offensive. As a former Marine, Army combat vet, photographer, military history fanatic, fan of the old Grease Gun and “writer, kinda,” I thought, “Wow, that’s cool.”

Combat Photographer Dennis Fisher with camera and M3 Grease Gun, taken by Combat Correspondent Earl Gerheim in Phu Bai after the Tet Offensive.

But something about that post burrowed into my subconscious, and later that day dug its way back out.

Gerheim…that’s an odd name. The only other place I’ve seen it was in a Vietnam novel called The Short-Timers by USMC vet Gustav Hasford. The main character was a Marine combat correspondent who winds up carrying a Grease Gun. And they’re in Phu Bai during Tet. And if I recall correctly, the guy named Gerheim was…

No way. It can’t be.

I jumped onto Facebook and reached out to Dennis Fisher. He confirmed that he did in fact serve with Hasford, as did Earl Gerheim. Fisher, Gerheim and I exchanged emails. Gerheim said Hasford used his name for two characters in the book, one of which was “Gunny Gerheim.”

You might know Gunny Gerheim.

The Short-Timers was published in 1979 but adapted for a movie that hit the big screen in 1987. In the movie, Gunny Gerheim’s name changed to Gunny Hartman. As in, Drill Instructor Gunnery Sergeant Hartman, played by R. Lee Ermey, in a Stanley Kubrick flick called Full Metal Jacket. I had somehow stumbled into two of the Marines who helped inspire Gustav Hasford to write the book that became the movie that pushed thousands of ‘80s kids like me into the Marine Corps, and whose characters became icons of American culture.

Full Metal Jacket is a classic American war movie. Who doesn’t know The Gunny? Who hasn’t shared a meme of Animal Mother? Who doesn’t know that only steers and queers come from Texas? Who hasn’t made a War Face? Who hasn’t said “Me so horny” to their significant other? Who doesn’t know “The first and last words out of your filthy sewers will be sir”?

Actually, that last one tripped me up. I arrived at Marine Corps Recruit Depot San Diego on a bus one dark night 31 years ago, exhausted from being up a full day and disoriented from riding aimlessly an hour from the airport to the fabled Yellow Footprints – which were, by the way, right next to the damn airport. I watched in terror as a DI approached, and a nervous voice exclaimed: “Here comes Smokey!” The DI walked up the bus steps, gave stern commands, and asked if we understood. We replied in crisp unison, trained by Full Metal Jacket, “Sir yes sir!” The DI, probably exasperated from hearing it a thousand times before, responded, “It’s just yes sir.” And we scrambled off the bus, a little dejected.

A few days after making first contact with Marine combat photographer Dennis Fisher we had a long and interesting phone conversation, and I saw photos he’d taken in country. The next day I spoke with combat correspondent “Crazy Earl” Gerheim, who was likewise fascinating and full of information. Then Gordon “Cowboy” Fowler, a Marine combat correspondent turned successful artist. Then Steve Berntson, a go-to Snuffie known in Vietnam for his ability to round up a quart of gin as well as new jungle fatigues. Then Bob “Ding” Bayer, Hasford’s closest friend. Then Dale “Daddy D.A.” Dye, that Dale Dye, another Marine from that small group.

“Crazy Earl” in Full Metal Jacket.

None bragged about themselves. All were eager to talk about Gustav Hasford, to ensure I understood his service, accomplishments, incredible intelligence, quick wit, and many, many eccentricities. Most of them loved the guy and generally called him Gus, sometimes pronounced “goose.” When I went other directions during interviews they’d often steer me back to Gus, which wasn’t exactly what I wanted. More on that later.

These men were the “Snuffies,” a small, tight-knit group of 1st Marine Division combat correspondents who served in “I Corps,” northern South Vietnam. They earned their pay by being pretty much a grunt with a notepad in line units (combat photographers like Dennis Fisher often went on missions with the Snuffies and remain close to some of them, but were in a separate unit). Their war was a curious anomaly, unique even in a conflict that had a thousand facets. There is no “standard” war experience; everything can change depending on where you are, what you do, and when you’re there. But the Snuffies experienced something far different than almost all other Marines, even those at the same places and same time.

The Snuffies were smart; plenty of other Vietnam GIs were smart, but the Snuffies needed above-average intelligence to get their MOS in the first place and several were college-educated. A couple including Hasford had already worked as writers or at newspapers, and four very bright Marines who’d washed out of officer training were sent to the Snuffies. They were well-read, followed world news, and “had conversations that would have been really unusual in line units,” according to Dale Dye, a prior mortarman. They also had to prove themselves useful so the grunts wouldn’t consider them dead weight. “When we’d get hit, it was important that the grunts in whatever unit I was with thought of me as Fowler and not ‘that idiot from division we have to babysit,’” Gordon Fowler said. “They had to trust me to fight beside them, not just write stories about them.” Simply put, you couldn’t find your own way around Vietnam, gain the trust of the infantry, and write good stories if you were stupid.

Then there was the Snuffies’ freedom. They carried printed orders from the division commander ordering anyone available to transport them around I Corps, and could pick and choose which units to embed with. “If we had a bad experience with, for example, India 3/5,” Steve Bernston said, “we’d say ‘Hey, Kilo 3/5 treated us better, let’s go with them instead’.” As crazy as this sounds to Global War on Terror (GWOT) vets, sometimes they even hitchhiked between outposts to reach their assigned units. “There was a standing order to always pick up a hitchhiking Marine,” Gordon Fowler said. That almost got Fowler killed once when he was picked up by ARVN (Army Republic of Vietnam) Soldiers who took him to what he thinks was a VC village, and he had to walk back to the main road to catch an American ride.

Lastly, every other Vietnam Marine had a gigantic, chain-of-command-shaped thumb on their backs; the Snuffies, on the other hand, were semi-volunteers on every mission. They received assignments to go with the infantry on various operations, which didn’t mean they had to be up front, but the Snuffies were constantly up front anyway. “We weren’t walking point or anything,” Bob Bayer said, “but there was pressure from the other Snuffies to get into it with the line units. We had a reputation to uphold.” So they jumped from line unit to line unit in ones and twos but never as a group, and kept getting into firefights, and kept getting wounded, just so they could do a good job telling the line Marines’ stories. Even draftee Gordon Fowler, 23 and married with a child when his lottery number came up, willingly risked it all.

“We were young, intelligent, creative guys who felt it was our duty to tell the story of the kid carrying a rifle and pack, scared to death out in the bush,” Dye said. “There were two ways to do that. You could hang out at the command post and interview grunts as they came back from the field, or get out in the field with them. We all wanted to be out there with them, and hated the idea that anyone would call us a pogue [POG, Person Other than Grunt] or REMF [Rear Echelon Mother Fucker]. We were out so much the grunts usually referred to us as JARs, Just Another Rifle.” Some grunts, upon learning the Snuffies hadn’t been ordered to accompany them on patrols and operations, expressed amazement: “You’re here, and you don’t have to be?”

Chief Victorio blew into his clenched hands, rubbed them together and held them toward the flames. Even with the roaring fire, he was freezing; the years of near-starvation, constant movement to escape the encroaching whites, and loss of hunting grounds had worn down Victorio’s physique so much that a stranger might be forgiven for thinking he was a teenage boy. Far from it at 56, Victorio knew, as his equally-withered small band of fighters shivered beside him, that if he didn’t defeat the whites at Fort Davis soon, the opportunity would pass and never return.

Over the cold, blowing wind, Victorio said sideways into the night, “Be strong, my brothers. This will pass, and we will be riding proud and free when it is over.”

The braves huddled around the fire murmured quiet assent, barely discernable against the sounds of the November high desert. Victorio closed his eyes, hearing the silent doubt behind the whispers of “Yes Chief” and “We are with you.” His men were scared. At this point, after years of seemingly endless defeats inflicted by both the Americans to the north and Mexicans to the south, Victorio could almost forgive their lack of faith. Almost.

But when Victorio opened his eyes seconds later, any tolerance of doubt had been forced from his mind. He needed braves, not terrified women. He would have no doubters by his side when he next attacked the white soldiers.

Victorio stood. Orange light danced and flickered over his lean, wiry frame, topped by a face turned old from suffering and privation. He gazed over his small band of warriors – thirteen of his most trusted men at the fire, only 58 more paired in the darkness in two concentric circles for security – held his rifle aloft, and roared in fury.

“ARE YOU MEN? Do you stand in defense of the great Chiricahua Nation? Or are you cowards who have chosen defeat over victory in your once-might hearts?”

Several warriors gasped in shock. A few cast their eyes downward in shame, fearing their brave chief, born without fear, could read their most silent thoughts. But most leapt to their feet, rifles and bows in the air, bellowing their loyalty.

“To the death, Chief Victorio!”

“We will never leave your side, great warrior!”

Chief Victorio surveyed his men, noting whose pledges were sincere, whose were obvious posturing, and whose silence spoke loudest. When the shouts died down, Victorio lowered his rifle and motioned his men closer. All thirteen clustered around his end of the fire.

“Keep your faith, warriors,” he said in a stern, flat tone. “Stay strong and brave. I promise you, the great spirit in the sky will bless us with good fortune soon.”

Victorio and his assembled men spun in surprise. A few feet away a short, thin, black-haired Asian man in an odd grey one-piece suit stood with hands empty and raised, eyes cast slightly downward in respect. As Victorio tried to process what he was seeing, the man made a slow pirouette, displaying his lack of weapons.

“I beg your forgiveness for this interruption, Chief Victorio,” the man said. “But I bring to you a matter of the utmost importance, and time is of the essence.”

Is this one of the railroad builders the white man brought?, Victorio wondered. “Tell me, Asian man, how did you pass through the warriors protecting our camp?”

“Please, great chief, I assure you that your warriors are performing their duties,” the Asian man said. “I was delivered through a means they could not have foreseen, nor could they have prevented me from reaching you. But I assure you that I wish you no harm, and only desire to offer assistance in your struggle against the white man’s aggression.”

“He snuck through our braves,” Victorio whispered. “An assassin, here to kill me. There is no other explanation.”

The warrior nearest Victorio looked up sharply and caught Victorio’s eye. Then he looked toward the Asian man, whipped up his bow, yanked an arrow from a quiver, loaded and drew.

“Please sir, I humbly request that you do not-”

The warrior let fly. The arrow slammed through the Asian man’s sternum and punched halfway out his back. The Asian man gasped, instinctively clutched at the arrow’s shaft, and staggered backward. A second arrow stabbed through the left side of his rib cage. The man shrieked, leaned left and turned in a half circle. A third and last arrow caught him in the lower back. He groaned, staggered away, and collapsed at the edge of the campfire light’s reach. A weak, pathetic death rattle, a sound Victorio had heard countless times, skipped across the howling wind. Then the man’s body went completely limp, almost melting into the rocks and sand.

The men watched in silence, until Victorio grunted approval and turned back toward the campfire. As the men returned to their crosslegged positions on spread blankets, one of the warriors said, “That was…odd.”

“Yes,” Victorio agreed. “It was odd that such a meek, harmless man could somehow sneak through our lines. Those who failed to perform their duties will be punished. Our enemies will exploit such failures, we must therefore never tolerate them.”

“Yes, great chief,” a man answered. “But do you really think that man was an assassin? He seemed to be so-”

“Chingow!” Victorio yelled as he jumped from his blanket and turned toward the voice. An Asian man, who looked like the same Asian man from a few moments earlier, stood in a respectful pose with his hands open and raised, eyes slightly downcast. The man wore the same grey one-piece suit as the other, but without protruding arrows, holes, or blood. As Victorio’s warriors shouted their surprise and drew their weapons, the man spoke.

“Great chief, I beg of you, please do not kill me again. I simply wish to offer you a sure path to victory.”

“Kill you again?” Victorio blurted, and pointed into the darkness. “We didn’t kill you, we killed that man over-”

Victorio stopped mid-sentence. The dead man was gone.

“What the…”

“Please, great chief,” the man pleaded. “I request but five minutes of your time, to explain my offer of assistance.”

Victorio looked sharply at the warriors to his left and right. They returned his questioning glances, equally unsure of what to do.

“Strange visitor, I must confer with my braves,” Victorio announced. “Remain where you stand.”

“As you command, great chief,” the man said, holding his respectful pose.

Keeping one eye on the Asian man, Victorio huddled with his men and spoke in a hushed tone.

“Holy shit, dudes. This is weirding me the fuck out. Anyone have a clue what to do?”

“Uh…should we kill him again?” one brave asked.

“That freak would just come back again,” Victorio said. “And that would scare the shit out of me.”

“Chief, are you sure that’s really the same guy?” another warrior said. “I mean, those Asian guys all kinda look ali-”

“Alright,” Victorio said. “I don’t know what choice we have. Let’s listen to the guy for five minutes, then talk in private again. And remember, I’m the war chief but your opinions matter just as much as mine, so we don’t make any decisions until we talk everything over. Deal?”

“Chief Victorio,” then man said, finally lowering his raised hands. “I offer you the help of a hundred brave, experienced warriors from a fierce and proud tribe. These warriors are armed with weapons so powerful the white man cannot possibly resist, and are willing to give their lives to totally destroy Fort Davis. They want nothing in return for joining your fight, desire none of your territory, and after your victory will return to their distant land. Should you accept them as allies, they can be here within moments.”

“No, smartass,” Nguyen answered with an eyeroll. “This is literally the highest tech that exists anywhere in the world. You and your boys will walk into it, and walk out the other side into 1881 West Texas. Specifically, you’ll walk out of the Sutler’s store at Fort Davis.”

Vic tilted his head and looked at the machine again. Nothing about it was impressive. The entire device filled only a half-size conex container, painted dull grey, with a complicated network of cables and wires running from the back end to dozens of computers and monitors spread throughout the darkened warehouse. Red lights provided a faint glow over the device and monitoring stations, and the dull hum of cooling units didn’t quite impede normal conversation.

“If this was the only one,” Vic asked, “how did the Chinese get it?”

“No idea,” Pena Rodriguez said. “It must have been a cyber breach. I mean, the only person here with access to all the plans and data is Elsie, our transsexual intelligence analyst. She’s a sweetheart though, she’d never steal the plans and give them to Wikileaks or anything like that.”

Vic looked toward one of the workstations. A skinny, bucktoothed, pink-haired guy in a dress lifted a disc from a computer drive. He saw Vic, froze, dropped the disc back into the drive, tapped his fingertips together and innocently whistled Born This Way.

“How many Soldiers will I have?” Vic asked.

“Ten. Including you.”

“That’s it?”

“What, are you scared?’ Nguyen asked. “Ten is plenty. How many do you expect the Chinese to send, a hundred? At best they’ll put five guys through their machine, then you and the 8thCavalry troopers at Davis will whip their ass in minutes. You’ll have M4s, SAWs, an M-240, AT-4s, grenades, body armor, everything. If anything, it’ll be too easy.”

“I’ve heard that shit before,” Vic muttered. “What makes you so sure it’ll only be five Chinese?”

“Our intel is solid,” Nguyen said. “There’s no doubt. Has the CIA ever been wrong?”

“Nobody cares about Iraq!” Pena Rodriguez yelled. “That’s in the past! What matters is what’s happening today…and what happened in the past.”

“If what happened in the past matters, doesn’t that include Iraq?”

“No,” Nguyen said. “We’re only concerned with the 1880s. And I guarantee the CIA had no intelligence failures then.”

Vic looked away and shook his head. “Tell me the plan.”

“Nothing to it,” Pena Rodriguez said. “You ten vets go through, make contact with the camp commander, and give him the cover story. There’s one minor obstacle, we can’t send people and weapons through at the same time, so you’ll get the weapons half an hour later. Then you set the defense, kill the Chinese, repel the Apaches, shake hands and kiss babies, and ride off into the sunset back to today. We’ll time your return to the Saturday evening when we knocked on your door. You won’t even miss a day of work.”

“Huh,” Vic said, with obvious doubt. “And we’ll be able to fight right after going through? Time travel isn’t going to mess us up?”

“Not at all,” Nguyen said. “Well, not really. There might be a little digestive and urinary upset, but it won’t affect your ability to fight. Right after the passage you might have a slight stomach ache and need to pee a couple times, then it goes away.”

“Quit worrying about irrelevant crap!” Nguyen blurted. “Focus on the mission. All that matters is how you and your troops will defend Fort Davis.”

US Army troops at Fort Davis. Photo from TrueWestMagazine.com

Vic rubbed his forehead. “Speaking of that, what makes you people think the other vets will follow me anyway? I was just an E-4 team leader, nothing special.”

“Oh, they’ll follow you,” Nguyen said. “We told them about the heroic way you lost your leg in Afghanistan. They’ll go anywhere with you.”

“God dammit,” Vic said, biting back anger. “Do you people know how I actually lost my leg?”

“Nobody cares exactlyhow you lost your leg,” Pena Rodriguez hissed. “What matters is that you gave a piece of your protective gear to one of your Soldiers who didn’t have his, and it cost you your leg.”

“Well…yeah,” Vic stammered. “Sort of. But that’s not the whole-”

“It doesn’t matter!” Nguyen yelled. “They’ll follow you because you’re a hero. And besides that, they’re all descendants of Apache, just like you. We told them you’re Victorio’s great-great-great-great grandson. That’s all it took. You’re the man.”

“I’m not a freakin’ hero!” Vic shouted back. “And I was only in the damn Army for three years. I’m no tactical genius and was never even in command of nine people, I was just a fireteam leader in charge of three Joes. Now you dickheads think I can go back in time and lead a ten-man squad against Chinese cyberweirdos and an army of Apaches? Really?”

“Yes, this is it,” Hasibullah answered. “It’s the same place I met the Chinaman before.”

A hundred freezing Taliban fighters huddled in the pitch-black woods beside a dirt road in the Tagab Valley, in northeastern Afghanistan’s Kapisa Province. Steam rose from the clusters they’d gathered into for warmth, dissipating as it hit the dense overhead foliage. When wind moved tree branches, faint light from the waning moon would glint off weathered AK-47s, PKM machine guns, ammunition belts and RPGs. Hidden from the moonlight under wraps and in ragged backpacks were four hand grenades per fighter, plus a scattering of satchel charges built from fertilizer and aluminum powder. Each team leader, ten in all, carried an iCom radio with spare batteries.

Every Taliban fighter carried a rifle, RPG or machine gun as a matter of course, but the grenades and satchel charges meant something else. This was an assault force, to overrun an enemy camp.

To gather a force that large, fighters had been pulled from cells all over the province plus the Surobi Valley to the south, Laghman Province to the east, and Parwan Province to the west. No cell leaders wanted to give up fighters, but they understood that these fighters would bring about the defeat of the United States. Not just defeat, but its complete destruction.

The cell leaders didn’t understand quite how these Taliban were going to destroy America, but no matter. Their commander in Pakistan had met the Chinese, gone somewhere secret, and seen something amazing. He ordered the assembly of an assault force that same night, and his only complaint was that he was limited to sending a hundred fighters. Those fighters didn’t ask questions; they were told the Chinese were taking them to meet strange fellow warriors and attack a strange American base, so they prepared to meet strange fellow warriors and attack a strange American base.

Hasibullah pulled his wrap over his head, drew his cell phone from a pocket and checked the time. 1:57 a.m.The Chinaman had been fanatical about punctuality, constantly reminding him that he and his fighters couldn’t operate on “Afghan time” for this operation; they had to be at the right places, at the right times. Since the Chinaman had told Hasibullah he’d be there with trucks at two, Hasibullah expected him to arrive in exactly three minutes.

Even with such a short wait, Hasibullah was nervous. Local Afghan police at the checkpoints had been paid off or knew not to stop them, so the sooner they were in trucks and on the road the better. But if an American drone spotted their heat signatures against the cold background before the trucks arrived, missiles would land among them in seconds. The Taliban never saw or heard the drones at night, their first indication they’d been spotted was an explosion.

Someone tapped Hasibullah’s shoulder. He uncovered his head, and his eyes followed a pointing finger toward dim lights in the distance. Mumbled word was spread, and the shivering fighters crowded the edge of the road. Within a minute Hasibullah heard tires crunching rocks, and at precisely 2 a.m. the first truck stopped at precisely the right spot. The Taliban split up, twenty men to a truck just as they’d been told, and climbed into the open beds. Hasibullah climbed into the lead truck’s cab and squeezed the Chinaman into the center seat.

“Yes, yes,” Hasibullah grunted in annoyance as he turned the heater vents toward him. “We’ll defeat America soon. But first let’s get out of here before the damn Americans blow us up with their robot airplanes.”

The Chinaman said something to the driver that Hasibullah couldn’t understand. The driver shoved the gear shift forward, the engine whined, and the truck lurched forward. Hasibullah looked in the side mirror and could barely make out four faint silhouettes, all rolling close behind.

In the darkened cab, Hasibullah allowed himself a nearly invisible smile. They were on their way. Within days, he’d been told, his men and their foreign allies would attack a poorly-defended American base protecting a vital highway that fed material wealth to major American cities. When that highway was cut, when American’s sinful commerce ground to a halt and its greedy citizens stopped receiving their whorish clothes, pornography and alcohol, America would fall. Dissolve. Fade away.

Americans, Hasibullah thought. Pigs. Liars. Heathens. Filthy whoremongers. He gave an imperceptible shake of his head. If he wasn’t so cold, he thought, he’d roll the window down and spit to get their imagined taste out of his mouth.

Since the Americans came, they’d somehow managed to offend and repulse him every time he’d encountered them. First they at least pretended to be respectful, but Hasibullah knew better. He’d caught them trying to look through women’s burqas. He watched them talk and joke during prayer calls. He heard them laugh at village elders. He saw them drop trash, even outside the masjid. But most disgusting, vile, and repulsive of all, he heard them fart!

The memory made Hasibullah swallow back vomit. The first time he’d heard it, when American Marines first came to his village, he’d been so stunned he could barely speak. He’d been walking his favorite, most attractive goat through the village when he saw them, and had tried to detour around them like he’d been instructed by older mujaheddin. But as he made his turn, the ragged, staccato roar burst from one of the Marines’ pants.

Hasibullah froze in terror. For a moment he thought, prayed really, that it must have been something else, maybe someone stepping on a duck. But no, it was definitely a fart. It had to have been a fart, because the other Americans laughed. Tittered and giggled like little children. Then another American did it, and they burst into loud guffaws.

Hasibullah stood frozen in shock. Then he forced his eyes down, to check on his goat. She was already staring back at him, rectangular pupils full of terror, practically shaking in panic. Then the wind blew the American evil toward them, and his loving, beautiful, passionate goat said one word:

“BLEEEAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!”

Hasibullah’s jaw clenched in fury at the memory. That goat had never recovered. And he’d never forgiven himself for not protecting her from such shame.

Before that day, Hasibullah had heard one fart. It happened during a shura,a meeting of local village and tribal elders. The men were sitting on a rug around a collection of sweets and hot tea. One elder leaned forward to grab a biscuit, and it happened.

The assembled men froze and stared at him. He blanched, sat back, seemed to hope in vain that it hadn’t been noticed. Nobody spoke. Then the smell hit. Men gagged, dry heaved, glared angrily at the horrified elder. And the elder did the only honorable thing a real Afghan would do if he farted in front of others: he stood without a word, grabbed his AK, walked outside and shot himself.

Hasibullah had heard several American farts since then, each worse than the last. Every time it happened, he had to restrain himself from rushing home, grabbing his rifle, and mowing the insolent Americans down. Such an act would get him killed, of course, and maybe lead to the destruction of his entire cell. Even so, he’d been tempted to give his life just to kill one of these farting demons.

Hasibullah would get his revenge during the coming assault. Revenge for god. For Afghanistan. But mostly, for the life-changing trauma his goat had suffered at the hands of a gassy, disrespectful American.

He accepted that he might die; he would be in the forefront, as always, but no matter. He would be happy to die, if he could drag America into the grave with him. He’d go to paradise, while America would go to hell where it belonged. A noxious, putrid, fart-choked hell.

You devilish, filthy Americans, he silently sneered, will fart no more.

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Note: the fart thing comes partly from an experience I had in Afghanistan.

My team was hanging out on our firebase with our Afghan-American translator, “John,” a cantankerous old Pashtun originally from Kandahar who’d emigrated to California. We all loved the guy (even though I wound up having to fire him later because he was such a hardhead). Anyway, as we were BSing he loudly farted. Of course, my team and I burst out laughing. Our terp was horrified and apologized profusely. We shrugged it off, but he kept apologizing and acted thoroughly ashamed. We tried telling him, “It’s nothing John, don’t sweat it,” but John still looked like he’d been caught rummaging through a fat old lady’s panty drawer.

His reaction was really odd. So we pushed him for an explanation of why he was so ashamed, and after he calmed down he told us a story.

When he’d been a kid in Kandahar, farting in front of anyone was practically considered a mortal sin. But one man who lived near him had farted on accident in front of several other people. The man, John said, just disappeared. He abandoned his wife/wives and children, said nothing to anyone, didn’t take any property, and disappeared. Everyone in the community assumed he’d killed himself, which they also thought was the proper thing to do. Years later he turned up somewhere far from Kandahar. It turned out he’d started life elsewhere under a different name, hoping nobody would ever know he’d farted once.

That was the only time I ever heard of the Afghan attitude toward farting, and after I came home I forgot about it. Then, several years back, I read this article, about some Marines being banned from farting around Afghans in order not to offend them. One guy on another website commented, “I remember my Terp telling me how [farting] was the worst thing you could do. He told of a guy whose grandfather had farted in public and how his grandson now had to bear the shame.”

Hence, my Taliban protagonist is motivated by desire for revenge against farting Americans.

I recently visited Fort Davis, Texas, on a family vacation. The landscape reminded me of Afghanistan, and the combination of Afghanistan landscape with an old west army fort reminded me of a book I heard of in the 1980s: Remember the Alamo.

Remember the Alamo was written by Kevin Randle and Robert Cornett. I never read it, but when I saw the cover in high school I laughed my ass off. The plot has something to do with Vietnam veterans going back in time to defend the Alamo in 1836. Randle and Cornett also wrote two similar books about Vietnam vets going back in time, Remember Gettysburg and Remember Little Bighorn. I never read those either, and based on Amazon reviews it looks like almost nobody did. That’s a shame, because Randle and Cornett came up with a really cool idea.

So I’ve decided to write a novella with a similar idea, about an Afghanistan vet who goes back in time to defend Fort Davis from an Apache attack (that never happened). I visited Fort Davis Tuesday, started thinking about a story that day, then wrote this first chapter last night and this morning. I hope you enjoy it, and I’m totally open to ideas for changing or improving it. I plan on publishing each chapter here as I write them, and who knows, maybe enough people will like it that I’ll eventually publish it as a real book.

I dedicate this story to Kevin Randle and Robert Cornett, and if anyone likes my story hopefully they’ll read Remember the Alamo. I plan on reading it soon.

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THE DEFENSE OF FORT DAVIS

A Totally Non-Historical Historical Novel

Chapter 1

Vic Johannsen sat back on his couch, exhausted. All the boxes were put away, random housewares that had cluttered the living room floor were in their proper place, new friends who’d lent a hand were headed home. He was moved in, and the moving hadn’t even hurt his stump. Not enough to bother him, anyway.

Vic had taken ten long years to get to this point. After an uneventful start in the Army he’d deployed to Afghanistan, and eight months later it happened. He’d handled it just fine, of course, but coming home minus a lower leg had kind of jacked up his post-Army plans. He’d spent a few years living with mom and going to college on the G.I. Bill, changed his major three times, and finally quit. He worked a string of menial jobs that gave him absolutely zero satisfaction. He applied for his local fire department, then police department, then ambulance service, and withdrew every application. He married, was blessed to have no children, and divorced less than two years later. Nothing he’d tried felt right.

Then he heard about Houston and its booming petrochemical industry. The very first application he submitted produced four replies, and within a week he’d accepted a job with better benefits and salary than he’d dared expect. Two weeks later he was settled into his new apartment in Houston, with three very happy first days of work behind him. On day one he’d caught the eye of a beautiful Latina in Accounting; Vic was tall, wiry, sandy-haired but with dark black mysterious eyes, had looked like and been a perfect soldier until the injury, and some girls liked that. He had no one to take care of except himself, no car or mortgage debt, no child support, no alimony, no student loans, nothing but opportunity and success ahead, and his favorite kind of woman was interested in him. Life was fantastic.

Someone knocked on the door.

“Dangit,” Vic muttered, in his hometown’s drawl. He struggled off the couch, briefly rubbed his stump, hopped to the door and pulled it open. Two men stood at the door wearing matching black suits, black sunglasses, and Brady Bunch-white skin and blond hair. Neither said a word.

Vic looked from one to the other, then back, waiting for them to speak. Nothing.

“Can I help you?”

“Mr. Victor Johannsen, we need to speak in private,” one said. “Inside.”

“About what? And do I know you?”

“This is vitally important, Mr. Johannsen,” the other said. “Or should I call you…Victorio Calanche Johannsen?”

Vic’s eyes narrowed. Nobody had ever called him Victorio except his great grandmother, who’d named him. And the only time he’d ever used Calanche, his great grandmother’s last name, was on his high school diploma.

“Who are you people?”

“I’m Agent Juan Carlos Pena Rodriguez,” Brady family member number one said. “And this is Agent Duc Nguyen.”

“Those are our real names,” Brady member number two said. “Not aliases.”

Vic stared at the two men, who looked like they should be named Chad and Brent. “Um…okay. You people should probably tell me what you want.”

Agent Pena Rodriguez said, “Victorio, we know about your Apache ancestry. And because of it, your country needs your help.”

“What? How do you know about my ancestry?”

“You took a DNA test,” Agent Nguyen said. “We have the results.”

“Bull. DNA tests can’t tell what tribe you’re from.”

“You researched your genealogy and built a family tree in high school,” Agent Pena Rodriguez said. “We have it.”

“Fine,” Vic sighed. “What does my Apache ancestry have to do with anything?”

“What we’re talking about, Victorio,” Agent Pena Rodriguez said, “is the heroic way you lost your leg in Afghanistan. And why it makes you indispensable for a new mission.”

“The way I lost my leg?” Vic blurted. “Do you have any idea how I actually lost my leg?”

“Nobody cares how you lost your leg,” Agent Nguyen said. “That’s ancient history. All that matters now is the future. And the past.”

“Wait,” Vic stammered. “You just said nobody cares about the ancient history but all that matters is the past, or…something. What is this about?”

“Let’s go inside and talk,” Agent Pena Rodriguez said.

“Hell no!” Vic said. “I don’t even know who you are. Show me badges or something.”

“We’re not the kind of agents who have badges,” Agent Nguyen said softly. “And we’re not the kind of agents who can tell you what agency we work for. But we can tell you that the best way to help yourself is to help us help you help America.”

“Tell us what you know about Fort Davis, Mr. Johannsen,” Pena Rodriguez demanded. “The fort, not the town.”

“Fort Davis, Texas? I grew up in Alpine, right near there. It’s just an old Army base from the 1800s.”

“It’s not just an old army base,” Pena Rodriguez said. “Not to you. Fort Davis was your life. You volunteered to help restore parts of the fort, were a volunteer Park Ranger, and worked there as a tour guide. You were in a reenactor group and played an 8thCavalry trooper. You spent nights in the barracks with the Boy Scouts. You hiked all the trails and climbed all the mountains overlooking the fort. You drew pictures of it from memory and sold them to tourists. You wanted to know what it was like to sleep like a soldier so you took your 1880s field gear into the mountain over the fort and tried to spend a night, wound up with hypothermia, and had to be rescued. Your friends made fun of you, but you went back a week later and did it again, successfully that time. The first time you got lucky was at Fort Davis, when you and your girlfriend Jeannie snuck onto the fort one night during senior year. You know that Fort better than any soldier in America.”

“Whoa,” Vic said, eyes wide. How the hell did they know all that? “Yeah, I was a history nerd as a kid, and yeah, I loved Fort Davis. But-”

“Nobody cares how you felt about Fort Davis,” Nguyen said. “That’s all in the past. All we care about is what you can do today, tomorrow…and yesterday.”

“Yesterday? What the fu-”

“You also know that Fort Davis protected the vital San Antonio-to-El Paso road,” Pena Rodriguez said. “The road that all of America, even now, relies on for security and prosperity. The road that, if it ever fell to the enemy, in the 1800s or today, would mean the death of the United States of America.”

“What? It’s wasn’t that-“

“And, I might add,” Pena Rodriguez said, “Your great-great-great-great grandfather, Apache Chief Victorio, the man your great grandmother Hilaria Calanche named you after, was famous for attacking soldiers and wagon trains on that road.”

“Well…yeah,” Vic said, confused. “He was. What does that have to do with me?”

“Nobody cares what that has to do with you,” Nguyen said. “All that matters is why you wanted to know everything about Fort Davis. Everyone thought you dreamed of being an old west soldier, but you didn’t. The truth is that you wanted to know them because you fantasized about helping your great great great great grandfather Victorio defeat them. You wished you’d been an Apache warrior fighting by Victorio’s side. You wanted to know how to overrun Fort Davis.”

Vic’s eyes popped open. “Alright, you two are creeping me out. How did you know that?”

“How do you know we know that?” Nguyen asked.

“Uh…because you just told me?”

“No,” Pena Rodriguez said. “We didn’t know until you admitted to all of it just now.”

“I didn’t admit to anything!” Vic yelled. “And Jesus Christ, I was a kid. So what if I dreamed about-”

“We’re only here to find out one thing,” Nguyen said. “And you need to tell us the truth.”

“The truth about what?”

“What,” Pena Rodriguez asked, in a slow, deliberate tone, “do you know about the attack on Fort Davis?”

“There was no attack on Fort Davis!” Vic yelled. “It was never attacked. The Army closed it in 1891 because it wasn’t needed anymore.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Vic,” Nguyen said. “What you mean to say is, Fort Davis was never attacked before it closed in 1891…yet.”

Vic squinted and pursed his lips. “You people are idiots. Bye.” He started to slam the door, but Nguyen quickly blocked it with his foot.

“Victorio, your country needs you again,” Pena Rodriguez said quietly. “More than it’s ever needed you before. Before you say no, understand that the safety and security of every last American man, woman and child depends on you. More than that, America’s very existence depends on you. Think about that.”

Vic gave him a hard look. Everything about Pena Rodriguez and his partner reeked of horsecrap. On the other hand, they did know things about him that nobody else knew. That had to mean…well, something, right? And as a soldier, wasn’t he supposed to step up for his country?

What if they’re telling the truth about America needing me?

“What the hell,” Vic said, knowing he was making a mistake but throwing the door open anyway. “Come on in.”

It started just like any other day. I was at the station, watching President Ocortez on TV as she sentenced a criminal to death for denying that women experience erectile dysfunction, when the call came through. 10-37, Triggering In Progress at the memorial! I dropped my tofu and latte, sprinted to my patrol Prius, and blazed out of the parking lot at my max speed of 22 miles per hour.

On the way to the call I reminded myself not to get complacent; these situations can turn deadly in an instant. But I knew I’d be okay as long as I followed the escalation of force steps. If the suspect was a cishet patriarchal oppressor, shame, then accuse, then destroy online. But if the suspect was an oppressed victim of colonization, he wasn’t a suspect at all. So the steps were to ask for compliance, beg, plead, cry, apologize for my privilege, grovel, cry, admit everything is my fault, ask permission to touch him, cry, run away, drive to the station, cry, quit my job. Hopefully this situation wouldn’t require more than one cry.

As I tore through the streets, making sure not to hit any of the bicyclists passing me, I heard a muffled thump ahead. Smoke drifted from around the corner of a building. I turned and saw electric cars aflame, blood and body parts scattered on the street, broken glass and shards of metal everywhere. Just ahead of my car a human with long blond hair, wide hips, round stomach and large breasts frantically pushed a baby stroller away from whatever had just happened.

I cranked down my window and yelled, “Excuse me! What gender are you?”

“What gender am I?” She asked? “I’m obviously a pregnant woman!”

I glared at her. She was on the verge of a thought crime. I asked, “What happened here?”

“A suicide bomber just blew himself up!” she screamed.

I shook my head. “Trump,” I muttered. “That son of a bitch.”

“What?” she blurted. “Trump hasn’t been president in 25 years and has been dead for over a decade. This has nothing to do with Trump. Some guy yelled ‘Allah akbar, I love ISIS’ and blew himself up. People are dead and dying, please send help!”

“Oh, I’ll send someone,” I said. “You just stay right here and wait for them.” As I drove away I keyed my radio. “Dispatch, we need a Bias Response Team to 600 Main. A pregnant, female-appearing human expected me to assume her gender. She also failed to understand why a marginalized member of this oppressive society would lash out against the cishetero patriarchy. Tell the team to kill if necessary.”

The dispatcher responded, “Yeeeeeeeee!” Zhe was triggered, and nobody could blame zher. What I’d just described was traumatic. But I knew that zhe’d send the team as soon as zhe got zherself under control. Then I added, “Oh yeah, there was a bombing or something too. No idea of motive, probably workplace violence.” I continued toward the memorial, leaving behind patriarchal colonizers who’d no doubt gotten what they deserved.

I arrived at the memorial. Melinated humans approached me, carrying signs proclaiming their hatred of the non-melinated. Who could blame them? I slowly opened the door, stepped out and said “Hello, may I be of service?” in a pleasant voice, careful not to inadvertently reinforce the trauma of past police violence. Don’t get me wrong, police violence is almost unheard of since climate change ended the world in 2031 just like President Ocortez said it would, and we police have been unarmed since then. Just like socialism, disarming the police has worked perfectly. We only lose 16,000 officers killed annually and we’ve managed to not kill a single suspect, not even mass murderers or terrorists.

“I need to report that homo right there,” one of the melinated humans exclaimed as zhe pointed toward a white-appearing young person standing a short distance away. I looked up in shock at the anti-gay slur, and noticed the melinated humans were also holding anti-LGBTQIA++JFC/0 signs. I started to Yeeeeee, my eyes rolled back in my head and my hands trembled uncontrollably. But then I remembered that the people holding the signs weren’t part of the cishet colonizer patriarchy, so it was cool.

“What did zhe do?”, I asked?

“I called him a bunch of racial insults, told him he and everyone like him should die, accused him of being gay and insulted him for it, and he refused to back away!” the human exclaimed. “Can you believe I had to endure such racist hatred?”

“Yeeeeeee!” I blurted, then recovered from the triggering. “Are you okay? Do you need an ambulance?”

“No, I just want him dead!”

“That bastard,” I spat as I turned away. I started walking toward the racist, but then another human beating a drum jumped in my way.

“I’m a Vietnam [times] veteran!” he yelled. “The men with the signs were insulting that child, so I beat my drum in his face to protect the men with the signs! That child is a beast, and they were his prey! I’m a Vietnam [times] veteran, and I’ve seen this kind of mob violence before!”

“Oh god!” I stammered. “What did the racist do when you beat your drum in his face?”

The drummer retreated toward safety, still beating his drum. “I’m a Vietnam [times] veteran!” he yelled over his shoulder as he disappeared behind a trash can. I dashed toward the suspect and confronted him.

“You!” I screeched. “What did you do to make those people with the hateful signs insult you?”

The young, male-appearing suspect appeared confused. “Uh,” he muttered, unsure what was going on. “Nothing. I didn’t do anything to them.”

“Nothing but 400 years of oppression!” I screamed. “You expressed your privilege, and I know it! I’m a grown man, I know racism when I see it!”

“But I didn’t do anything,” the suspect said quietly. “I was just standing here and those guys started yelling racist and anti-gay slurs at me. I stayed away, but then the protester with the drum got in my face and started chanting. I didn’t know what was going on, so I just stood there.”

“Yeeeeeeeeeeee!” I triggered. “You just deflected blame onto the melinated protesters because you think your whiteness lets you get away with everything!”

“What? No!” he yelled back. “I didn’t do anything! Seriously, I just stood here and smiled.”

“All I did was smile!” the suspect said. “And anyway, he’s not even a real Vietnam veteran. He was an electrician who never left America.”

“Yeeeeeeeee!” I triggered again. “He’s a war hero! Stop denying his personhood! Allow people other than yourself the right to exist! Stop mansplaining!”

“Mansplaining?” he asked. “But, you’re a man too.”

“Yeeeeeeeeeee! Now you’ve misgendered me!”

“Misgendered? You just told me you’re a man.”

“That was seconds ago!” I gushed. “My gender changed since then!”

“What the heck?” the suspect asked in shock. “Forget it, I’m leaving.” He turned around and tried to leave but I threw the cuffs on, dragged him to the patrol Prius, and threw him in. After assuring the drummer and people carrying racist signs that I’d arrested the violent, vicious criminal, I took him to the station. Judge Reza punched him to death that afternoon. Criminal cases are so much faster, more equitable and fair since we banished the racist “presumption of innocence” that nazis loved so much.

I’m a huge gun rights advocate. I’ve been shooting and collecting guns since I was twelve. I got my first AR-15 thirty years ago, at age sixteen. I joined the Marine Corps Reserve at seventeen and became an infantry weapons repairman and marksmanship coach, and later was a tank crewman, cavalry scout and human intelligence collector in the Army National Guard. I’m an Iraq and Afghanistan combat vet. I’ve been a cop for over twenty years, and for a few years was one of my department’s Response to Active Shooter instructors. I’ve attended advanced weapons training through the military, my police department, and as a writer for BreachBangClear.com. I’ve fired tens of thousands of rounds out of everything from .22 pistols to ARs to heavy machine guns to sniper rifles to an M1A1 Abrams tank’s 120mm main gun.

I don’t defend the 2A because it makes me money. I don’t sell guns or get paid to teach shooting skills. I defend the 2A because I’m a student of human behavior and history. I know that the incredible peace, freedom, security and prosperity we enjoy is an anomaly; conflict and tyranny have been the norm for most humans for most of our existence. An armed populace, rather than hope or wishful thinking, is a good deterrent against external aggression and an excellent defense against internal oppression.

The 2A guarantees our right to keep and bear arms, for incredibly important reasons. It does not, however, require us to be blind and stupid. It doesn’t mean we should ignore obvious warnings from aspiring mass killers, like last week’s high school shooter.

Photo credit goodhousekeeping.com

In many previous mass shootings, there were no clear prior warnings. Some vague danger signs may have been recognized afterward, but often, as with the Las Vegas shooter, nobody had any idea whatsoever of the shooter’s plans, and the shooter had no criminal or mental health history. But the Florida massacre was carried out by a teenager who announced his intention to be a school shooter. And he was still able to legally buy a gun.

Of course, we all know the two tips to the FBI about the shooter’s statements weren’t properly followed up. But what if they had been followed up? Depending on the jurisdiction, simply saying “I’m going to be a professional school shooter” isn’t necessarily an arrestable offense, isn’t necessarily a felony, and isn’t necessarily enough to justify an involuntary mental health commitment. So it’s plausible that even if the FBI had investigated, and confirmed he had made the statements, and that he talked about murdering people, and that he introduced himself as a future school shooter, and that he had a history of erratic behavior, he still would have been able to legally buy an AR-15 to murder people with. I say allowing a known aspiring mass murderer to legally buy guns is blind and stupid. And I think most of my fellow 2A supporters would agree.

Or let me put it this way: if a radical Muslim extremist posted online that he believes in violent jihad against the Great Satan and praises the Paris terrorist attacks, would it make sense to let him legally buy an AK? How many gun dealers, if they knew about his plans, would sell him one? Few to none, I’d think.

So is there a way to legally prevent gun sales to those types of people, without infringing on the 2A rights of the innocent? Yes. Does supporting the 2A require us to support gun sales to people who are telling us they want to commit murder? No.

I’m not talking about banning the AR-15, advocating confiscations, repealing the 2A, or any nonsense like that. I’m not suggesting anything that would affect the tens of millions of legal, peaceful gun owners who we live and interact with every day. What I’m suggesting is that when someone tells us they’re buying a gun to commit a crime, especially a crime like mass murder, even if they haven’t broken the law or been committed, we listen to them. I’m proposing that we put laws in place to make those threats part of the background check system, and stop those wannabe murderers from legally buying a damn gun.

No, I’m not saying creation of such laws will be easy, or simple. I recognize the danger of a slippery slope that leads to further gun restrictions. I know legions of gun control advocates stand ready to exploit any opening toward their ultimate goal of “domestic disarmament.” I also know that not every mass shooter legally buys a gun, and this proposal won’t stop all mass shootings.

The Las Vegas mass shooting

But I also see seventeen dead kids and teachers. I see a shooter who told us what he was going to do. I see that current laws allowed him to buy an AR-15 to commit the mass murder he was planning. And I can’t imagine anyone arguing that nothing should be changed, that if the shooter’s clone showed up at a gun store tomorrow he should still be able to buy a gun. So I’m talking about laws that would stop some mass shootings, or maybe only a few, or maybe only one. You can’t convince me the lives saved in that one mass shooting aren’t worth it.

We can talk specifics later. Right now I just want intelligent, reasonable people to discuss solutions, pitfalls and roadblocks. Hopefully I’ll get my fellow gun owners and 2A advocates to agree with the principle, that it’s possible to enact laws to prevent aspiring (yet not convicted or committed) murderers from getting guns, without stopping the rest of us from getting guns.

I welcome any and all intelligent, informed opinions, whatever they are.